On New Year's Day I found a dead hare on the verge at the entrance to my village. I had never observed any hare, alive or dead, in that particular area before.

What had brought it there? Perhaps it had been frightened from its "form', its sleeping place, by the "battlefield' fireworks which shook my village, like every other in the land, on New Year's Eve. Disorientated, the animal ran beyond its familiar ground, to meet death by a passing car.

Impossible to prove, of course. But there can be little doubt that fireworks cause as much, if not more, distress to Britain's wildlife as to domestic pets and farm animals. Last weekend's New Year's Eve pyrotechnics followed hard on the heels of the bitterest winter's nights, which in themselves must have tested the endurance of small birds and mammals to the limit. Then we imposed upon them a din to rival the opening salvoes of the Somme.

The ear-shattering blasts around my home suggested that many of the fireworks were of the high-explosive kind supposedly now banned. But, of course, the new controls on fireworks are largely ineffective.

Tony Blair said recently that whenever he introduced a reform, he always felt later that he should have been more radical. Many would pinpoint his fireworks' legislation as a prime example.

By its very nature any fireworks' display becomes a community event. Very well. Let community displays be the only ones that are allowed, under licences issued by the local authorities. End the sale of fireworks for private occasions. This would merely bring Britain into line with many other countries. It is simply not acceptable for handfuls of individuals to turn whole neighbourhoods into aural war zones for their own pleasure.

But to return to the wildlife. At dawn on the morning of the post-Christmas blizzard more than 50 blackbirds were in my garden, awaiting the apples I put out daily. Joined by several fieldfares (alas, no thrush) they pecked their way through about 60 apples, which I set out throughout the day, generally in a line of about 15, at the foot of a hedge, which offered as much shelter as possible.

On most days I also scatter bird seed in the hedge bottom, as well as on a large board. Treat your whole garden as a bird table, is my advice. Apples are a wonder food. I've had a woodpecker and a blue tit dining on mine.

These days, however, few people with apple trees bother to collect the fruit. Many who do often seek to maximize the crop by deterring insects. A great mistake. Untreated, my three old trees still bear abundantly, yet support seed and grub eating birds.

On Boxing Day one of the latter, a tree creeper, stunned itself on one of our house windows. Carefully placed on a fork of an apple tree, it soon recovered and resumed its busy forays. A more fortunate festive season casualty than that hapless hare.

At midnight on New Year's Eve Tony Blair suffered his own Cinderella fate - forfeiting the fine robes of EU President for the mere rags of British Prime Minister. His Fairy Godmother was us, the British public, who stumped up £1m for gifts, stationery, logos and other trappings of the presidency. Yes, you may puke.